Not For The Last Time
by smileyfacebabe
Summary: Bilbo Baggins wishes for him home, for the warmth and comfort it brings him, not for the first nor the last time. Yet things have changed and stories have to be altered as the years go by. Bagginshield if you squint.


Author's Note: Okay, so this is absolutely crazy; I tried to imitate Tolkien's way of writing in the Hobbit and ran with an idea that I got somewhere in the goblin mountains. I haven't actually finished the Hobbit yet, but I've noticed Bilbo's wish to go home to his hobbit-hole is mentioned a lot, always followed by "not for the last time". So here you go, a fic based on that, with terrible tense changes I can't sort out. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

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There were parts of Bilbo Baggin's extraordinary tale that he downplays as he grows old and wrinkled. As time passes the trolls become more humorous than terrifying. Not long after his seventieth birthday the spiders within Mirkwood become things of shadows that never acquire a chance to touch the little hobbit or his dwarven little changes don't seem to affect the story overall in the little hobbit's esteemed opinion; they make it grander, he mutters when Gandalf points them out, grander and more hobbitling friendly. He doesn't agonize over those details of the story, mostly due to the fact that he is altogether too busy agonizing over the part of the tale he leaves out every time, without fail.

The first time Bilbo Baggins tells his tale he's standing on his front porch, staring at the crowd of hobbits that have attended the property auction being held in his absence. He's tired and dirty, pressed too short for details by time and by the loud, eager crowd. There are a lot of things he does not mention in the first telling of his tale, such as Rivendale or the way the dragon's bones had protruded from the lake as they passed it to return West, but the one that sticks to his mind afterward is all together different from the details of the landscape he saw in the year he was gone.

_Why would I need to mention how I missed my home_, he asks himself later that same night, once Gandalf had left. _Couldn't they see how relieved I was to be home? What would it matter to them that I wished for my bright little hobbit-hole all the way to the Lonely Mountain?_ But the question continues to pester him, until the second telling comes around and he again leaves his wish for his home out of the long winded tale.

It takes many years for Bilbo to admit to himself why he continues to leave his wish from the tale. Truthfully the steadily fattening hobbit wasn't ready to face the fact that he still wished for something deep in his breast. All across the hills and mountains and forests to the East the hobbit had wished again and again for his home, with its brightly painted door and warm, wide armchair. He had held this wish firmly in mind anytime danger reared its nasty nosey head, throughout the goblin mountains and throughout Mirkwood's forest and even throughout even the Battle of Five Armies. One moment the hobbit had been holding his wish firmly in mind, standing beside Thorin Oakenshield's cot, his poor head throbbing as the dwarf asked for his forgiveness, and the next the thought of his hobbit hole brought him no comfort. Not that Bilbo knew this at the time, but coincidentally that was the same moment in which Fili's body was found, buried atop Kili's as if to protect him. It was also the moment before the King Under the Mountain passed on, leaving behind him an empty mountain, a dead dragon, a battlefield, and something that wasn't quite a Company any longer.

It hadn't been until Bilbo Baggins was standing in his front hallway, staring at the layers of dust atop his possessions, did he realize why his wish for his hobbit-hole no longer soothed him. Gandlaf had been talking, muttering about having to leave immediately and asking something, his hand atop Bilbo's slim shoulder. It took the little hobbit a moment to focus on the tall wizard's words, but when he did the man's eyes were warm and friendly.

"Do you regret your adventure, Bilbo Baggins?"

Bilbo had blinked at the wizard, who towered above him like a lonesome singular mountain. "No," the little hobbit said, clasping his hands together. "I don't regret a thing, my friend."

But what a lie that was and what a liar Bilbo Baggins had become. His dwarven friends would have been furious to learn he kept lying, for many years after his adventure, as if someone had inked their fallen's king's words across his very being. But Gandalf had nodded and smiled, patting the hobbit twice on the shoulder before he turned and disappeared back into the night, leaving the fellow standing in his front hallway all alone. Closing the door shut, its green paint still scratched with the dwarven mark, Bilbo Baggins wished for his home, for a crackling fire and the booming laughter of too many bodies seated together in a tiny cave. He wished for the night sky above his head, for his sword upon his belt, for a broad shoulder against his on either side and a bowl of stewed rations in his lap. This was not the last time Bilbo Baggins wished for his home, within a Company of dwarves, but no change had ever come from wishing, even when you wished with all your heart.


End file.
